


OC Works: Ari/Renaud

by harcane



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-29 07:40:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5120402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcane/pseuds/harcane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>If you stumble upon this, I'm sorry for the lack of explanation. This is just for my own personal archive. Renaud belongs to me and Ariana belongs to housemarcellus on tumblr.</p>
    </blockquote>





	OC Works: Ari/Renaud

**Author's Note:**

> If you stumble upon this, I'm sorry for the lack of explanation. This is just for my own personal archive. Renaud belongs to me and Ariana belongs to housemarcellus on tumblr.

The assassin reached for the front door to Proudspire, as if she owned it, before the officer standing guard protested. 

“The agents will accept no visitors, especially not at this hour,” he warned her. “Leave now.”

A subtle and devious smile crept across the assassin's face beneath her hood, a moment before she pulled it back to reveal her face to him. She smiled sweetly. Despite this, there was a glint in her eye that suggested she was capable of convincing the man to slit his own throat, if she wished, to save herself the trouble.

“I really don't believe it's in your best interest to keep Agent Evander's wife waiting.” The guard scanned her suspiciously, but said nothing. The assassin crossed her arms and her warm smile seemed to fade. “In the bitter cold,” she added.

The guard eyed her for a moment longer and finally spoke. “The commander's wife resides in Cyrodiil and we are usually informed in advance of any of her scheduled vis--”

She cut him off, feigning offense. “I am married to the commander's _son._ Not the commander.”

The guard agent involuntarily clasped a hand to his mouth, and he took a moment to find the appropriate words to correct his offense.  
.  
“I apologize, Lady Evander. I... had no idea the commander's son was married. He's... not very social. Or pleasant. You must understand why I found that hard to believe...”

“I don't care what you believe. Let me pass,” she demanded, scowling at him. “It is _very_ cold and I wish to see my husband.”

“Of course, right away,” he muttered meekly. He scrambled with his ring of keys to unlock the front entrance for her. He entered first, and held the door but watched her closely as she stormed by. The guard sighed as he went back out and returned to his post, locking the door behind him.

It was quiet within the manor. The sound of her boots tapping on stone echoed inside its walls. She took her time, taking in every detail she could, knowing the house's agents were all fast asleep upstairs. Except the one she came for. A Penitus Oculatus commander's only son would die that night and she will have achieved this with only a single guard as witness to her arrival. That same guard would more than likely desperately give the account of his conversation with Agent Evander's “wife”. A wife that the entire organization knows does not exist.

 _'A pity...',_ she thought, smirking to herself.

The assassin made her way up the spiral stone staircases. There were several levels in the manor so she had a bit of time to organize her last minute plans as she examined each of the rooms.

A poison, she eventually decided, would be the ideal choice. She couldn't wait to decorate and set up that particular corpse for display. He would be arranged at his desk, as if he had never died at all. It made her ill to think the other officers would ruin her display the very next morning, but it was no matter. This evening belonged to her; it would not be spoiled by that inevitability.

She reached the final set of stairs and stopped, remembering she needed to be clever if she wanted to pull this off just right. No spy was trusting, unless they truly believed one was on their side. In no time, though, she had her story.

The assassin tapped lightly on the door and she could have sworn she heard a heavy and agitated sigh from the other side. A moment later, the man inside cracked the door ajar.

“Yes?” he began. “What is it? And... who are you?”

“I... we've met before. But I still don't feel comfortable giving my name. I hoped we could speak privately,” she explained, trying to get a peek inside the office. “I have information.”

Her introduction, though vague, seemed to pique his interest. His tired eyes lit up and he opened the door, gesturing a welcome into his office. It didn't escape her notice that he traced the hilt of his sword with his forefinger as she entered.

The room in which the agent worked was quite bright. A candled chandelier hung in the center of the room. Cast-iron sconces were mounted symmetrically in between each of the bookcases along the walls. Two lit lanterns sat on each side of his desk. For a moment, she thought, she could have saved herself the time and energy and let him die in a house fire.

“Have a seat.” He waved a hand to a chair in front of his desk, and then strode past her. The agent did not sit until she did. She felt his eyes bore into her, without even having to look, so she did what she was told.

“To start, I find it very hard to believe the agent on duty let you in. I assume you have something worthwhile, then?” He lifted a brow and waited for her to begin.

The assassin tried to make herself appear as timid as she could. One last indulgence to his sickening ego. She began her words slowly. “The people believe the Emperor will visit Skyrim, considering all that's happened. Your organization's presence alone, I think, gives that away. Unfortunately.”

“Perhaps,” he started. “But what you're telling me isn't new, or even useful, information.”

Her eye twitched and she gritted her teeth. Just as quickly, she recomposed herself and smiled. “Yes, agent. I just thought I would ease this information to you slowly. Cautiously, even. I'll admit... I don't know who to trust anymore.” She feigned an expression of worry.

“You can trust in the Empire.” He said this like it was scripted.

“Yes.” Internally, she felt an urge to gag, but continued. “But I wonder if the Empire is prepared for, or even aware of, each of its enemies,” she added ominously.

“I do appreciate you getting more to the point, thank you. Continue.”

Her grip tightened around the dagger at her side, where the agent could not see. But as she kept her eyes on him, she smiled graciously.

“Whom do you believe our enemies are?” he questioned, a hint of eagerness and genuine curiosity in his tone.

“You... will think I'm insane,” she said, seemingly ashamed.

The agent smirked a bit at that; only a very good eye would have noticed it. “I've heard many theories. Try me.”

It had taken almost no effort to reel him in, despite his initial disinterest in their meeting. She felt bold enough to even think that, in these few meetings, she knew how to manipulate him better than anyone. “The Dark Brotherhood...” she finally whispered.

The agent sat back in his chair. He tried to act very nonchalant but, as always, she could see through him. She could tell he only pretended to ponder this theory, knowing it was always beneficial in his line of work to appear disconnected from others. Unfortunate for the spy, she knew he very much wanted to discuss his own suspicions. His personal obsession was his weakness. At the very mention of the Dark Brotherhood, the conversation suddenly became one where the assassin and the spy each put on their own figurative masks. The assassin applied her mask hours ago, but now it was the agent's turn. Time would tell whose was thicker, whose was prettier, and who would give in first, while one deceived and the other deflected.

“And what makes you think an outdated assassin's guild has any involvement?” he finally asked.

“I don't believe they're as powerless as everyone believes. I think they're rebuilding, growing in numbers, but... I don't think anyone would believe me. That's why I came to you, admittedly. I just... had a feeling that you would at least hear me out.”

“Anything's possible,” he encouraged her. “But where is your evidence? What makes you believe these things? I would like to know.”

 _'He's not even trying to hide his excitement now,'_ she thought.

“I actually do have... much to share,” she explained. “I've been doing some traveling and I've been able to hear some things. Even witness them. Things that people think are common murders but I believe it's something more.”

The agent leaned forward at his desk and swallowed. Most would have thought he was nervous, but the assassin knew better. He was fervently excited for her to continue. He couldn't resist indulging his own paranoia.

“Go on,” he urged her. The agent situated himself in his chair to appear distracted from the conversation, but still, she knew better. Everything she needed to know was expressed through his eyes.

The assassin smiled politely and bowed her head, a soft giggle escaping her lips. “I hope this isn't a bother... but I would like a drink first. I feel very nervous. Do you mind?”

His face sunk a bit with the interruption but he sat upright and replied cordially. “I don't keep anything of the sort in here. I'm sorry.”

“Actually, I brought something of my own,” she explained. “They are unique brews and I rarely drink anything else, anyway. I wouldn't mind sharing, since you've been so patient with me. And I'm afraid some of these stories will take a while to explain. If you have the time, of course.”

The spy's lips were drawn in a thin line at the inconvenience, but he nodded quickly in response. He retrieved two cups from the polished wine rack and placed them in front of his guest. When he reached for the bottles in her hands, she abruptly stood up.

“Please, allow me. You look tired...” she offered, twisting the bottles away from his reach.

The spy hesitated and then narrowed his dark eyes at her. He said nothing, as he went to sit back down, but watched her closely as she poured their drinks.

Her poison-laced wine was poured first, into the spy's tankard, and she gently slid it towards him across the desk. He never looked down at it, and still he refused to take his eyes off her as she poured the second drink for herself.

She knew now that he was suspicious. A change of plans then, she thought.

“The brews are different,” she explained. “But both are imported from Cyrodiil. I refuse to drink anything else.” She half-smiled.

The spy didn't appear all that interested as he finally took his eyes away from her, and to the drink given to him. With his arms crossed and a single brow cocked, he brought his stare back up to her.

“I'm... so sorry. I told you I really was nervous about this meeting, and now I've gone off the topic,” she apologized. “Before I start with my accounts on the Dark Brotherhood, though, it did occur to me that I really think you would prefer _this_ one.” She handed him the untampered drink, and then took the poisoned brew for herself.

The agent glanced at the tankard and resituated it in front of him on the desk. Even with her recommendation, he did not sample it. “There's no reason to be nervous. Tell me what you've seen and heard.”

The assassin placed her fingers around her tankard and softly tapped the edge of it with her index. She was hesitant to drink but knew that she must. It was the only way to fix this.

“Well,” she began, pulling her tankard closer to her as she spoke. “My first long stay in a city was in Windhelm. I didn't speak to very many people when I was there but as I shopped, I heard whispers of a boy wanting to perform a ritual. A _child_ wanted someone dead, and he sought the help of the Dark Brotherhood. I... did not stay long enough to find out if that was true. Or if he succeeded. I didn't feel safe there anymore.”

“I heard about that,” the spy admitted. “It had nothing to do with Emperor Mede, of course, so I was not in a position to professionally investigate.”

“But did you, anyway? In your own free time?” she asked quietly. She realized the conversation was about to progress more quickly than she had anticipated. Finally, she brought her tankard to her lips and deeply drank.

The spy hesitated, looking over her carefully. “I... did, yes. The rumors concerned me. If it was true, children should not believe they can turn to cults and assassins for help. If the story was false, I wanted to know why a city insisted on fabricating stories about murder and rituals. In my fairly short stay so far, I've learned that this country has enough to fear already.”

The assassin could taste the poisoned liquor in her mouth and throat. Her insides began to burn. Numbness began on her lips and her vision started to blur. She had made the poison herself, and knew it would not be long now. As bodily weakness took over, she prayed the fool spy was as competent as she suspected. In the seconds to come, he would be her only saving grace.

“What do we....” she struggled to say, “..have..... to fear?” It was all she could utter, before she slumped to the side of her chair. 

The agent abruptly jumped from his seat, shoving the tankards off his desk in the process. He rushed to her side and brought her head up. Then, a bit of vomit poured from her mouth. It was a body's natural defense against poison but he knew it would not be enough. He pulled her off the chair and onto the floor, laying her on her side, and examined her body. Her eyes occasionally fluttered but refused to stay open. Her lips trembled like she wanted to speak but every time she tried, a mixture of vomit and drool blocked the words.

The agent's hands twitched violently as he brought them to her face. His palms and fingertips emitted a pale-gold shimmer as he steadily hovered his hands over her skin. Knowing he could not cure the poison with magic alone, he attempted to at least keep her alive before its effects could take her. After a full minute of continuous restoration magicks, her skin started to faintly flush with color. Still, he did not trust his own work to cure her completely, and he felt his own will fading, so he stumbled back towards his desk. He pulled a keyring from his belt and fiddled with the lock on his desk drawer and shuffled through his belongings. Upon locating a small rose-colored vial, he sighed with relief. The agent crawled back to her and rest her head on his knee. Using a thumb to pull at her chin and pour the vial's contents into her mouth, he let the antidote take over. After waiting several seconds, he heard her gasp and watched her eyes open.

Her breathing was rapid as she looked around and then up at him. She scowled for a second and then her expression went soft. _'The fetcher actually managed it...',_ she thought. His hand was still propping up her head, fingers tangled in the mess of dark curls, and she felt her skin crawl at his touch.

“Can you speak?” the agent asked. “Are you able to stand?”

“Y-yes,” she answered, making herself appear afraid. She crawled away from him on the floor. The agent stood himself up and then extended a hand, a silent offer to help her up. She flinched at his approach.

“Don't touch me,” she warned, and looked as if she might cry. The agent said nothing; he didn't know how to respond.

The assassin reinforced her charade. She started to ramble. Her voice as quiet as a whisper but she tightened her throat and the words came out strained. “They're after me.... I—I can't be seen with you. I hav—I have to leave. I shouldn't have come.” She brought herself to her feet and hurried for the door.

“Wait!” the agent protested. “I can help you, if you think the Dark Brotherhood is after you. Solitude can keep you safe. None of their assassins would dare enter the capital.”

Her head had been facing the door, away from him, and she smiled. He didn't realize how mistaken he was.

She put on her most convincing frown and turned to face him. “I think their reach is farther than you realize, agent.”


End file.
